


Invitus Amabo

by Morvith



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Communication, Esca does not like Romans, Esca is angry, F/M, I did the bare minimum of research and discarded anything that didn't fit, Internal Conflict, Marcus is a horse girl, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Rating May Change, girl!Marcus, understatement of the year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-01-27 15:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morvith/pseuds/Morvith
Summary: Esca owes his life to Aquila - Flavia Aquila, the orphaned daughter of a disgraced Roman officer. Some things change, some stay the same.
Relationships: Marcus Flavius Aquila/Esca Mac Cunoval
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	1. Winter

_Odero si potero, si non, invitus amabo_

I will hate you if I can, if not, I will love unwilling (Ovid, Amores)

He owes his life to a woman. A _Roman_ woman, and it wasn't enough that they took his tribe, his family and his freedom, no, now a Roman woman comes along and snatches away his last chance for relief, just like that.

Even death is denied to him by the whims of _bloody, godsdamned Romans_.

Everybody else seems to find it incredibly amusing.

“The Brigantes has an admirer!”

“Maybe she'll visit tonight, eh, Brigantes? Get a taste of barbarian spear.”

“Better you than me, did you see her? So ugly.”

“To the Brigantes, she'll be Venus herself! She did save his worthless hide, no?”

Esca hasn't been here long enough to see it, but the other gladiators have boasted of it – rich women paying good money for a fuck.

Well, if she expects him to be _grateful_, she is sorely mistaken! His is not a Roman cock, to get hard on orders. Let her try and wrangle a refund from Beppo!

Esca settles down in a corner, glaring at the door as if it should open at any moment. Eventually, he falls asleep. The door stays closed.

********

The night brings no woman, but the morning a new master.

Esca can't quite believe it's happening, not again. It's an old man, accompanied by an even older slave – Esca knows better than to look straight at the former and can't even bring himself to glance at the latter, not when an evil voice in his head keeps whispering that _that_ is his future.

He could overpower them both and escape, even if the old man stands like a soldier, but there's too many people on the road, he would get caught right away.

He wants to die, not be executed or fed to some outlandish beast for the Romans' amusement.

Also, his ribs still hurt.

They eventually reach one of those big Roman houses – he has seen many before, though never with a watchtower.

“Give him a bath, Stephanos,” The Roman orders, dismounting. “We can't let him in the house like that, Flavia would have our hides.”

“Yes, master. Come, boy.”

Esca is too tired to bristle at that. He follows the old slave, watching their master lead the horse toward another building out of the corner of his eye. Esca catches a glimpse of movement – the stable door opening and a bundled up figure stepping out.

Another slave, presumably. That's two.

The old slave is talking – grumbling, more like. Esca ought to listen, ought to try and learn what he can about his new master and his house, but he can't bring himself to care.

At the first occasion, he'll run.

He manages to keep his father's dagger hidden and recover it from the rags he got at the arena before the housekeeper, Sasstica, throws them in the fire. She promise to find him a pair of braccae, and it might be worth lingering just for that.

For the moment, he gets a tunic and then follows Stephanos to the house proper, back to his master.

The old Roman looks at him up and down, assessing him, but... possibly not for a bed partner? One can never tell, with this Romans.

Esca hears soft footsteps, then a woman bundled up in cloaks and furs comes into the room. Her clothes are plain, so much he almost takes her for another servant, until she opens her mouth and unaccented Latin comes out. “You sent for me, uncle?”

“Ah, Flavia. Here he is, your new stable boy. You better hope he is good with horses.”

The woman glances at him. “Thank you, uncle. I am sure everything will be well.”

“I hope so. As much as you care for those horses of yours, you can't sleep in the stables when the foaling starts. It's not seemly. And you, boy,” he adds, turning to him. “You belong to my niece now. Obey her as you would me.”

Esca says nothing.

“At worse, I am sure I can teach him. My thanks again, uncle, I'll leave you to your book now.”

She turns around Esca follows. Another slave brings him an old cloak and the woman inspects it carefully before handing it over to him.

  
“This way.”

They cross the courtyard again, the woman grumbling to herself. “Hello, my darlings!” She says as they enter, and Esca nearly slips in surprise.

There are five horses there – the master's horse, a stallion and three mares. “Those are Argus and Sol, and the girls are Minna, Vipsania and Dulce. They are all pregnant: I expect Dulce will deliver in spring, while Vipsania and Minna aren't due until summer.” She leans over to pat the closest horse, glancing at him over her shoulder. “What do I call you?” 

“Whatever you want, domina” he answers, but it sounds distracted even to his ears. The she speaks, the more her voice sounds... not familiar, not exactly, but it niggles at his mind, like a burr stuck to his clothes.

The woman turns, raising her eyebrows at him. “You don't want me to name you. I am awful at naming things. I can't promise I won't mangle it, but it's still better than anything I can come up with.”

Esca says nothing. He wonders if this is a trap, although his name, unlike his father's, never came to amount to anything much.

The woman is still staring at him, impatient. “I am not above shouting “hey you” or “new one,” I warn you.”

Shouting. That does it. It all falls into place and Esca looks up, looks straight at her even if he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't. Her hair is different, held out of the way in a simple braid, her face looks different without a ton of paint and those unnatural colours around her eyes, but he knows he is right. “You're the woman at the arena,” he blurts out.

She blinks, looking at him in confusion. “Yes? And so?”

Esca's inside freeze, the gladiator's laughter ringing in his ears. Idiot, idiot he is, he should have known better, he thought he had no further to fall...

The woman sighs and moves closer. Esca feels rooted on the spot. Something hard hits his chest and he suddenly finds himself holding a shovel.

“Come on, new one. The stalls don't muck themselves.”

She turns her back on him, cooing at another horse the way some women do with their lapdog.

Esca's knuckles are white against the wood of the handle. He owes her his life, there's a debt here, but what would a Roman woman understand of such debts, of honour?

He hates her, hates her more than anything in the world – for taking his life and not knowing, for the way she speaks to him,  _for being a godsdamned Roman_ . 

He could hit her, take one of the horses and run.

  
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he recoils in horror.  _I haven't yet sunk so low as that!_

Whether he likes it or not, whether she knows or not, he owes her his life. A debt is a debt.

Esca shifts his grip and starts mucking. After that, the horses need watering and feeding and the crazy Roman woman is always there, watching his every move and working right next to him.

That alone is not surprising – Esca has seen small farms before, not every Roman can afford to sit on his – or her – ass all day while slaves wait on them hand and foot. It's the way she does it that's all wrong: he's pretty sure she shouldn't be in a stable at all, let alone talking to the horses like that! Or talking to him at all, yet here she is, mucking, hauling water and hay just like him, all the while chattering about her darlings, their temperament, what they don't like and so on and so forth.

Roman masters don't chatter. Roman masters, and Roman mistresses too for the matter, bark orders, yell, hit and don't send their slaves to warm themselves up in the kitchen while they keep moving hay.

She is clearly insane. Also, she does call him “new one”. Frequently. She is doing it on purpose, she must: there's only the two of them in the stable, who else would she be talking to?!

Perhaps she wants something more “civilized” than a roll in the hay.

Stephanos shows him his own cubiculum that night, in the servant quarters off the kitchen and Esca settles down to wait.

Eventually, exhaustion overtakes him. She doesn't come to fetch him, nor does she send for him. She gives him no special orders to attend her, either. Not that day, not the next, not the one after.

It takes him almost a month before he realizes that the order he keeps expecting will not come. It should be a relief, but Esca's heart burns with anger because of course she won't order him to her bed. He is no man, he is a slave.

He is so angry and offended he ends up telling her his name, while spearing hay with a pitchfork as if it were the Roman Emperor himself.

“Esca,” she repeats carefully, and then has the gall to smile at him. “Good. I was about to try Blondie.”

His face must reflect all his outrage, yet she just laughs and keeps brushing Vipsania. She doesn't punish him for his insolence, either.

Eventually, his anger fades. The villa is not a bad place to spend the winter, even if the Romans are mad.


	2. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter contains non-graphic animal death (it's natural causes, but better safe than sorry)

Winter slowly turns to spring, with many complaints from the Roman about the weather and Esca gets new chores between helping with the horses and the laundry.

Three things happen in spring.

The first, Esca gets his nightly visit.

In a manner of speaking, because she isn't really visiting him as much as poor Dulce, who has gone into labour too early.

Esca almost doesn't believe his eyes when he sees her come in a couple of hours after he uncle came to fetch her to bed, shaking rainwater out of her hair. “Any change?”

“None.”

“My poor darling,” she sighs as she kneels by the horse head. “You get some rest if you want, I'll stay with Dulce.”

“I'm fine, domina.”

It's a long, long night, between Dulce's pained whinnies and the rain beating on the roof.

“Is this your first birth? Domina,” he adds hurriedly, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“In a way, yes. I have assisted other births, even difficult ones, but it was just assisting.”

Esca hesitates, but Dulce's laments are tugging at his heartstrings. She is a good horse, well-named, and even if it goes against everything he has learned in his years of slavery, he can't stand by and do nothing. “I have some experience. I could try to help the foal out.”

He fully expects her to hit him, at least scold him for his interference, but she only looks up at him with determined eyes. “Do it, then. I trust you. What do I need to do?”

It's neither easy nor pleasant, but eventually the foal is born – a girl – and Dulce lives.

It is hard to hate Flavia when she has that look on her face, covered in blood and birthing fluid as much as he is, dirtier than he had even seen her, smiling back at him. “You did it! That was amazing, Esca!”

A few hours later, the foal dies.

“Oh, Dulce. I am so sorry,” she whispers, wiping away a few tears, and Esca waits for her to turn around and blame him. It is dawn now, surely whatever strange spell they were under has broken and she will remember she is Roman, she is the mistress and he is the slave who touched her precious horse.

If he is lucky, she will just yell, possibly slap him a few times, but she is bound to be tired, it shouldn't hurt much.

But there's no anger, no condemnation in her eyes when she looks at him. “Do you think we can leave Dulce? I don't think I can move the foal on my own.” A strange look crosses her face. “Oh, but you must be tired, too. Never mind, I'll call...”

“I can do it, domina,” he interrupts her. Again, without repercussion.

It seems right, somehow, that they should be the ones to take care of this. She does order him straight to the baths afterwards, but all the hot water can only wash away the mud and fluids.

It's strange, so strange. For a night they were not mistress and slave, not Roman and Brigantes. They were just... people with a job to do and horses to take care of.

Esca tries not to think about it, for it changes nothing. He is just biding his time: come summer and good weather, he'll be gone, far away from Romans and their mad women.

The second thing that happens is that an old friend of the master comes visit – an army man, this one, bringing with him a young officer who always looks as though there are ants in his clothes and he is trying to bear it – what's that word she used? Ah, yes, stoically.

For once, Esca finds common ground with the other slaves in the house, who dislike having their quiet routine upset even if, of course, they don't show it and just grumble among themselves.

“Such things are bad for the young mistress,” Sassticca comments gloomily, and Esca doesn't understand. How could it not be good for Romans to be with other Romans?

He understands later, when he sees her coming down to dinner. He almost drops the amphora on his foot at the sight: gone are her short, practical tunics, her skin is covered by layers and layers of paint like a hut covered in mud and her eyes are drowning in more ugly colours.

For all that colour and the yards of fabric she has wrapped herself into, though, she seems... smaller. Colder, too, biting like the freezing Northern winds. A statue that can walk and talk, but is still not alive, not in the way she usually is.

She doesn't step foot in the stables, either, and Esca has never known her to be away for so long. She does ask him to report every day in her study, twice a day, but he can see her longing, no matter how poised and detached she tries to be. It is as plain as the day.

The worst part, though, is the guests themselves. Esca hears them talking as he and Stephanos attend them in the baths, where they are refreshing themselves after a hunt. The master had escaped back to his study pleading a household matter.

The older soldier, the master's friend, is all praises for the master's house, his food and wine, the hunting grounds, and then he speaks of her.

“Aquila's niece is a credit to him,” he says “She has his house well in order, and still pretty, too!”

For a moment, the young officer looks like a hare that came out of its burrow to find herself face to face with a growling dog. It pleases Esca's heart to see him look so, but all pleasure vanishes like smoke in the wind when he next opens his mouth. “She is so old, she must have had all the time to perfect her household skills. Not that they will serve her, poor girl”

“Come, Placidus, she from an equestrian family. An old one, too.”

“She is the daughter of the man who lost a legion and worse, its Eagle. Who could desire such a connection? What honour could she brings to her husband's house? She is completely useless.”

Esca is no stranger to the urge to kill Romans, yet it's the first time he wants to drown one in the bath.

Stephanos must see something on his face because he grips his arm with surprising strength and drags him outside, somehow without attracting the Romans' attention.

“Let go of me!” Esca growls, trying to free his arm once they are far enough. “Two-faced Romans! We must tell the master!”

“You'll do nothing of the sort!” Stephanos replies, grabbing him again. “Do you think they don't already know?”

  
“Those...  _men_ are guests in their house!” Esca replies, scandalized. 

“And they spoke the truth.” Stephanos sighs in exasperation. “You're a Briton, you don't understand politics.”

“I understand dishonour” Esca spits back, feeling like an angry lynx. “That's what they are saying, isn't it? But a man's dishonour dies with him.”

Stephanos sighs again, tiredly this time. “It should, yes. But the world does not work like that. Go help Sassticca and send me Marcipor.”

Esca goes and somehow ends up staying in the kitchen for the whole supper – he is expressively prohibited from carrying the plates, even if both Stephanos and Marcipor could use the help.

At least it's their last night here. If Esca spends it tossing and turning on his pallet, wondering why he cares so much about what one stupid Roman thinks of another and failing to come up with ways to have the officer fall into the mud, possibly in front of her, well, it's nobody's business but his own.

Thank all the gods, they leave the next day at dawn and one hour later Flavia returns to the stables, clean-faced and sensibly attired once more.

“I thought they'd never leave,” she complains as she grabs a bucket. “Good thing uncle Aquila doesn't have many friends.”

_Is it?_ Esca wants to ask, but says nothing. She is still crazy and still Roman. What does he care, if she suffered from his people's greatest victory? Haven't his people suffered, too? 

_But _ – whispers an unwelcome voice in his head –  _my people met an honourable end and were masters of their fate. At least they are at peace, not trapped in a sort of living death, paying for a crime they didn't commit._

He tells himself it's not his fault, he has no part in the stupid rules Romans invent for their own lives, but when he closes his eyes, he keeps seeing her working around the farm – not how she is now, but as an old woman with grey hair, wrinkled face and dead eyes. No husband, no children and not even the chance of honourable death in battle because Roman women do not fight.

Just nothing, nothing at all.

_The last of her line. Like me._

“Claudius Hieronimianus was pleasant enough and he meant well,” she continues, a bitter note in her voice. “But I really wish he hadn't brought Tribune Placidus. Oh, he was polite enough, but you could tell what he really thought of the whole visit. He looked so... so...” She trails off, shrugging frustratedly.

  
“Oh, the pains I must endure for advancement!” Esca mutters without thinking, his voice as close as to the Roman's pronunciation as he can make it.

She whips her head around, looking straight at him, and Esca waits for her to backhand him, or throw something at him or... it takes him a few moments to realize that she is laughing. “Oh, yes! Just like that!”

To his dying day, he will never know what possesses him to continue. “Oh woe! Oh disgrace! I better not breath too deep in case I pollute my lungs!”

He is really going too far, there – if old man Aquila heard him, he's sure he'd whip him himself, yet she just laughs and laughs and the more she laughs, the less he can bring himself to stop imitating that pompous ass, getting more and more absurd until she is doubled over and has tears running down her cheeks.

Later, he calls himself all kinds of fools – a slave mocking his betters, has he taken leave of his senses? Does he want to get beaten to death? He must be careful, what was he trying to achieve there?

He tells himself it was momentary lapse in judgement. He certainly did not like the way she laughed, and that he managed to make her happy when other Romans, young and old, only made her sad, is of no consequence at all.

The third thing that happens is that Esca is struck down by a fever, right on the cusp of summer.

He knew he was getting ill, but he had thought it would pass – instead, he goes to sleep one night, shivering in spite of the pleasant weather, and doesn't really wake up for weeks.

He has only vague impressions of that time – a man he didn't know and he isn't sure was real, voices and painful light.

He dreams of eagles, of red crests and faceless soldiers, of his family, looking down on him with open, bleeding wounds inflicted by Roman swords. His mother holds her arms out to him, her breath rattling through her slit throat, and he wants to run to her, jump into her arms as though he were still a child.

He dreams of the cells under the arena, of the sand in a cold, cloudy day and a sword to his throat. Most of all, he dreams of her – even here he cannot escape her.

He dreams of her hands, slightly rough as he knew they would be, pressing a cool, wet cloth to his forehead. Her voice, singing softly Roman songs, foreign songs when he longs for his people's voices. Her face, hovering above his, with her stupid soft gaze and her stupid soft eyes.

He growls at her, curses her because it's just a dream and at least here, he can. “I hate you so much,” he tells her as she bends over him. “Stupid woman, you saved me from a sword just to let me burn. I was born to be a warrior, not to waste away. It's all your fault.”

She doesn't stop looking at him. He dreams of his hand in her hair, then nothing.

When he wakes up again, he is not in his rooms – they put him in one of the empty ones near the garden, and Marcipor is there. The fever has finally broken, but he is still as weak as a kitten.

She comes to see him, too, and smiles at him like she smiled that night in the stable. “Welcome back, Esca. Minna had to do without your services, but she is well and her son is growing well. I named him Primus.”

Esca groans. She laughs.

He expects they will sell him now, but they don't. They let him rest, have the doctor to see him again and give him only the lightest of duties.

He doesn't understand any of that.

  
“You save the mistress' horse,” Sassticca explains exasperatedly. “She values you.”

Esca snorts. “Next you'll tell me she nursed me herself!”

Sassticca glares, clearly tempted to hit him with her spoon. “She took a turn, we all did. What, who else did you think it was?” She adds when he silently gapes at her. “There aren't so many of us here. Though she shouldn't have done that. It's not proper and the gods only know what sort of monsters you were fighting in your fever! A young woman should not see such things. Why, once you pulled her hair so hard I thought you'd rip it from her head!”

Esca startles and almost drops the knife he is using. “What?”

Sassticca misunderstands. “The mistress knows you didn't mean it. It was just the fever. Why, you passed out right after, but what a fright you gave us!”

But Esca stops listening. He suddenly remembers her hair, how soft it felt under his hand.

Sassticca, when pressed, admits the mistress ordered that nobody inform her uncle and was very clear. Forceful, in a way she seldom is.

“But why hasn't she punished me? Or sold me?” he asks, bewildered.

“Ah, so you were cussing, then!” Sassticca says, pointing her spoon at him. “I knew it! And in front of a lady! You're lucky she is soft hearted and doesn't speak your tongue.”

Esca feels his knee tremble. He spoke in his native tongue, not Latin, and too softly for Sassticca to hear him. Nobody knows. Except for him and why does he feel  _guilty_ now? It was the truth! 

Little by little, he regains enough of his strength to return to the stables, alone with her. She smiles when she sees him. “It's good to have you back, it's almost Vipsania's time. Everything seems all right, though”

He firmly tells himself she is not glad to see him, just to have two more hands at her disposal. Just like he doesn't miss her when she has to go to Calleva for one of their stupid festivals and he's left to work on his own in silence.

Still, he finds himself staring at her, at her hair, often enough that she catches him.

“What is it? Have I got something on my head?” she asks.

“No, domina. I just... Sassticca told me...” he swallows hard. “I owe you an apology.”

“You really don't. As feverish as you were, you probably mistook me for Medusa.” She wrinkles her nose. “Mind you, if my lovely aunt had been there, she would have agreed with you.”

And just like that, the incident is closed.

_I must get away from her. Madness must be catching. _

By the time he feels well enough to escape, it's autumn again. He is Brigantes, no stranger to the cold, but... he has no supplies and no time to gather them.

So he stays. Freezing on the road is even more undignified than dying of fever.


	3. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains a scene that could be triggering. See the end notes for details.

As winter and spring pass, Esca finds his resolve to escape wavering. He owes her his life twice over now, the fact that she doesn't know it changes nothing, nor does the knowledge this would mean serving her for life.

A debt is a debt, even to one's worst enemy, even if it cannot be discharged.

To be fair, it is hard to consider her his worse enemy: Roman she may be, but she is just a woman. Nine years ago, if he was barely a man, she was barely more than a child, not even old enough to marry and yet Rome had already marked her as ruined.

_How about that, domina?_ He thinks sometimes, looking at her when she can't notice. _Rome is a monster that devoured us both._

He never says it out loud, though, for all that Stephanos and Sassticca decry his unruly tongue. What good would it do?

Some days, he wonders whether he is just being a coward, using honour as an excuse to preserve his own life. Would his father approve? His mother? What will his brothers say when he finally joins them?

Other days he can admit, if only to himself, that the idea of spending his life with the most un-Roman Roman he has ever met is not as bleak as he makes it sound.

Summer changes everything, again.

  
It's a warm, sunny day, the perfect day to decree a general wash of all household linen – all morning spent at carrying water and stroking the fires, Esca feels like snow about to melt. His tunic feels unpleasantly wet and, without thinking, he had slips it off, remaining in his braccae – decent enough and it's just for a moment, just to let the tunic dry a bit over a bush as he hangs the last load of laundry.

He feels her gaze before he even sees her. He almost wishes he hadn't: then he could pretend he had been mistaken, that it had been just his imagination... but there's no mistaking the look on her face. In a blink, it's gone, as if it had never been there at all, but it's too late now.

Esca's ears ring with laughter and the gladiators' mocking words. He feels naked, exposed, like he is standing at the slave market again and how foolish, how stupid he has been, to think her different!

“Esca? Are you all right?” she asks, and how dare she sound worried!

He can't bring himself to answer her, or look at her. He feels her come closer, than take the blanket from his hands. “I'll finish this. You have been out in the sun too long, go get some rest.”

“Yes, domina,” he answers curtly, and if she is frowning at him, it must be offence. It is not, it can't possibly be worry.

That night, he barely sleeps.

She has him on light duties for the next few days, as if he were sick again – just keeping an eye on the horses as they are out to pasture, checking the traps in the woods.

It leaves him alone with his own thoughts and he hates it.

At least he can swim again, for the first time in years: Roman baths are good enough for winter, but nothing can beat the chilly river water on a hot Summer afternoon. Diving in feels like coming home again, it reminds him of other hot afternoons he spent with his brothers, fishing and swimming until mother called them home.

He is far from the carefree boy he used to be, but it's hard to think of anything else when the river cradles him. Sometimes he dives under the currents and tries to see how long he can hold his breath, even if his brothers aren't there to make it a competition.

That's when disaster strikes, on one such afternoon: when Esca breaks through the surface and sees her there on the banks by his clothes, staring at him. He can feel her eyes, the way they follow the water dripping down his shoulders and chest, down to his belly.

Something stirs in his chest, in his belly at her gaze and suddenly all the anger, all the rage he had to bite down and swallow these nine years past rises and rises, unstoppable like a flooding river.

“Finally taking your dues, domina?” he asks, striding towards her and out of the water, still naked and not caring at all.

He feels his lips curl in a savage grin when she takes a step back, that too-warm look wiped from her face. “Did you take me for a fool? I know what you want, what all you Romans want! So what do you command, domina? Shall I lick your cunt? Want to ride me like I'm one of your horses? So say it! Just sa-”

Whatever he was going to shout next turns into an agonized scream and he falls down, curling on himself, the whole world gone into a haze of pain.

Esca is not sure how long he lays on the ground, not daring to move. Waiting for the next blow.

He can hear the river and the buzzing insects, the horses whinnying and moving restlessly further off and his own ragged breathing, his own thundering heart.

_Well, congratulations,_ says a biting voice in his head that sounds remarkably like his own, _you finally discovered what it takes to make her hit you._

When Esca opens his eyes, he is alone on the riverbank. She is gone.

Slowly, carefully, he sits up and gets dressed. He checks on the horses, disturbed by the shouting, and with quiet words and soft touches manages to calm them down. For the first time in months, he looks at the woods and thinks of escaping.

_So much for debts and honour. _

The thought alone tastes like ashes. He goes back under the trees and waits – for Aquila, for Stephanos, for whatever his punishment will be.

The sun keeps crawling across the sky, slow and inexorable, but no one comes. Eventually, it is time to lead the horses back to the stable and get the last chores done before the night. Nobody stops him.

Sassticca glares at him as soon as he sets foot in the kitchen. “What did you say to the young mistress?” She demands, threatening him with her big wooden spoon.

“Me? Nothing!” Slavery has made a liar out of him, but how could he explain what happened when he cannot explain it to himself?

Sassticca doesn't look convinced. “Then why did she close herself up in her room and told Stephanos to bring her her dinner on a tray?”

“How should I know?” Esca growls back. “I didn't see her.”

Sassticca still glares, but turns away, muttering under her breath. Marcipor and Stephanos, when they arrive, look at him as they used to when he was first brought to the villa, as though he were some kind of unknown, savage beast suddenly dropped among them.

Old man Aquila doesn't summon him. He eats his dinner and curls up in his cubiculum, undisturbed but for his conscience.

The following days, she doesn't come to the stables – or rather, she does, but never when Esca is there. All he sees are traces of her passage, the chores completed.

He is sent out hunting in the forest, then assigned other chores around the villa – all things that keep him busy and away from wherever she is working at the time.

He never sees her, and he hadn't realized how much time they actually spent together. He hadn't realized he had still something to lose.

For the first time in years, Esca feels alone. Lonely.

She was the one person who saw him, and now that it's gone he feels invisible.

  
The gods take mercy on him, because they send rain: not a frightful storm, but enough to halt all work and send everybody scurrying indoors. He manages to slip away from Stephanos and Marcipor, heading for the inner portico and her study.

There's a light in there, and voices – _her_ voice, and master Aquila's. Esca hides behind a column, listening.

“...that dratted stable boy upset you, by Pollux, I swear I'll...”

“He has done nothing of the sort, Uncle.” She says, sounding calm and resolute. “I'm sorry I've been foolish, I didn't mean to worry you. I assure you, it was nothing.”

Aquila sighs. “If you say so, my dear. I just want you to be happy, as much as possible.”

“I do appreciate it, uncle, truly. It will pass soon, there is no need to worry.”

“Well, if you are sure... But if there's anything you wish to tell me, my study is always open for you.”

She offers more reassurances as she accompanies him to the door, then Aquila leaves, back to his tower.

Esca listens to his footsteps, hears the ladder creak and the trapdoor fall shut, and waits a little longer. Then, he gathers his courage and slips out of his hiding place, silently heading for her study.

The door is ajar, but he knocks anyway.

“Come in.”

She had been expecting Stephanos or Marcipor, it's obvious from the way her shoulders tense and her hands close around a metal stylus. “Esca. Is there anything wrong in the stables?” She asks woodenly.

Esca wants to throw himself on his knees before her, but he knows that, if he makes any sudden movements, that stylus will end up in his eye. “No, domina.”

The last few days he has been desperate to see her, to beg her forgiveness, but now that she is here right in front of him, he doesn't know what to say. Once again, she looks small, too small and fragile.

“I'm sorry” he finally mumbles.

She snorts, her eyes staring at the floor without really seeing it. “Of course you are.”

“It's true, I am, my behaviour was abominable... I didn't mean to frighten you or hurt you, I don't know what I was thinking, if I was thinking at all... I just...” It's all coming out wrong, jumbled and confused, and she still isn't looking at him. “I shamed my mother. Utterly. That day. I regret every single word I said, everything I did. I have no excuse, I can only offer my apologies.”

Silence. Her hands relax their deathly grip on the stylus, but she still won't look at him. “That day at the arena,” she finally says. “Do you remember it?”

Esca wasn't expecting it. There's only one thing he can say to that: “You saved me.”

It feels good to say it out loud, to acknowledge it, yet she seems to shrink into herself even further.

“All this time, did you think I did it only because I... thought you handsome?”

It's not what she meant to say, but Esca hears her true words anyway – the echoes of the vulgarities he shouted at her. For a moment, he badly wants to lie. “In truth, sometimes I did. I was told that Roman women, sometimes... well...that they...” he fumbles and trails off.

“I see,” she says, still staring at nothing.

Esca forces himself to remain still as his heart hammers in chest.

“It wasn't for that,” she murmurs. “It was because you were brave, the bravest man I ever saw... and I did not wish to see you die.” Silence stretches again between them.“Is there anything else?”

_Look at me look at me please look at me..._

“No. Nothing.” He waits one more moment to see if she will call him out on his lack of proper address, but she doesn't.

He leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He retires to his cubiculum that night feeling that, somehow, he has made things worse, but the next morning Flavia is back, working in the stables as if she had never left.

The entire household seems to breathe out again, now that things are back to normal, except... except they aren't, not for Esca.

She is back, that's true, but they don't work together as much as they used to. She doesn't chatter any more and when she looks at him, it's only to avert her eyes a second later.

It's awkward and stilted and Esca doesn't know how to atone, how to return to what they had before.

Still, they work, and as summer turns, they must work together again: the grain needs harvesting, the hay must be cut and dried properly if they want to feed the horses through the winter and they are the youngest in the household.

One afternoon, however, she doesn't leave with Sassticca and Marcipor. Esca doesn't know what to make of it: they're sitting in the shade and she is close, closer than she had been in the last week, but her mind is clearly miles away.

Esca feels restless, like a young colt that might suddenly break into a run, yet he is unwilling to move, least she runs from him again. He's whittling a branch, trying to turn it into a horse and mostly failing, but it keeps his hands occupied. He lays down the knife, blowing away some dust and critically examining his work when she suddenly speaks.

“My uncle tried to bed me.”

The horse falls to the ground, forgotten, and Esca can't breathe as a thousand thoughts race through his mind.

_I'll kill him I'll kill him how dare he are you hurt I swear I'll kill him I didn't hear you I'm sorry I'm sorry _

“WHAT?”

Flavia startles, finally looking up at him with wide eyes and she shouldn't be afraid, not of him, he can't stand it when she is afraid of him.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout, just...” He wants to gather her in his arms and swear he'll protect her, but he can't, not after last week.

Flavia takes a deep, unsteady breath. “It's... it was a long time ago and he didn't... didn't. He can't hurt me now that I live with Uncle Aquila...” Some of his confusion must show on his face, for she looks horrified. “Oh, you thought... No, not uncle Aquila, he'd never hurt me, it was my aunt's husband, when I lived in Rome. Bona dea, I am making a mess!” She says, covering her face with her hands. “I'm sorry I made you think... I just wanted you to know, to understand that I wouldn't order you or ask you, not ever. I won't insult you by saying I understand everything you have gone through, but that's one thing I do understand. I wouldn't do it to you, or anybody else.”

“But you want me,” Esca says before he can stop himself. “I know it.”

Flavia shivers, then raises her head, defiantly meeting his gaze in spite of her reddened cheeks. “So? Nothing will come of it. That's my problem, not yours. I apologise for making you uncomfortable. In truth, I never wanted you to know.” She laughs bitterly. “I know who I am, my fate. Ugly, old Flavia Aquila, unwanted daughter of a dishonoured man.”

“You're neither ugly nor old! And your father's dishonour is not your fault.”

Flavia sighs, and she sounds so tired, so defeated. “You are kind, Esca, but it's the truth. All Roman girls my age have been married for years, have children. No priesthood would have me, either: my aunt's husband tried, especially after the night I fought him off. If I had been born a boy, I could have joined the army and regained our honour, or died trying. As a woman, and one who'll never marry, I can only remain chaste and not shame my family further, for all the good it does me. At least uncle Aquila lets me keep the horses, even if it's not quite proper, and I'm no longer in Rome.”

Rome, always Rome, so far away and yet always looming over them. All Romans sing its praises, talk constantly of its beauty, its grand buildings and busy streets while deploring the barbarous province they live in, all Romans dream of going back to Rome. All except her, and how has Esca not noticed it before?

“You never speak of Rome,” he whispers. “Has it always been like this for you?”

Flavia shrugs. “It was never my home.”

“There must be more than that,” he says gently, well aware that she doesn't owe him an answer or further explanation.

She gives it anyway. “It's quite simple, really. It was always clear I was there on sufferance: in Rome in general and in my aunt's household in particular. I grew up there, but I never had a definite position: I was not a slave or a servant, but I wasn't quite part of the family, either. That's why I am so bad at dealing with slaves, I guess.”

He doesn't understand and he doesn't know how to ask her to explain, either. Luckily, she keeps talking.

“Some of their slaves quickly realized they could escape punishments by blaming whatever went wrong on me, but others were kind to me, even if they didn't have to. I spent a lot of time hiding out in the stables, nobody ever thought to look for me there. Their head groom was a freedman, he and his sons were always good to me. He taught me everything I know.” Her lips curve in a small, sad smile, the first one he sees in days. “And his middle son taught me how to kiss, before I left to join uncle Aquila here.” She sighs, rubbing her face with a hand. “Back then, I still hoped that maybe, in the provinces, somebody might look beyond my name, but it was not to be. Especially not here.”

Esca doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. He just watches her breathe, look up to the sky and the sunlight shining through the leaves dances with the shadows on her face, like the lamplight did over a year ago in the stable.

“It would have been so much better for everyone if I had died as a child.”

For the second time, Esca feels horror steal his breath and freeze his blood. “You... you don't mean it,” he says, and his words sound clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Flavia laughs. It's not a nice sound. “Don't I? Who'd miss me? My aunt and uncle would have been glad to bury me and the connection to my disgraced family I represent, my cousins even more so. Uncle Aquila cares for me, but he frets and worries about my future. I am only a burden to him.”

“I'd miss you,” Esca says rashly. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.”

Flavia finally turns her head, looking straight at him as if she could see to the bottom of his soul. “And you would have minded so much? When you meant to die in the arena?”

“How did you know?” He asks, shocked.

“I've always known it. Did you think I didn't?” Esca wishes she didn't talk to him like that. She ought to be mocking, not gentle, not sweet. “When we last spoke, I told the truth: I thought you brave and I didn't wish to see you die. But I was selfish, I didn't think of what you wanted... Uncle Aquila had to spell it out for me later, when he scolded me over my behaviour”

  
Esca frowns. He's genuinely having trouble following. “He scolded you? Why?”

“Women shouldn't make a spectacle of themselves in public. And also, he knew I had taken your own death from you and he thought I shouldn't have interfered. So we argued and I still had some money set aside for another mare, but I insisted that he use it to buy you instead.”

“So I owe you my life twice over.”

Flavia shakes her head angrily. “You owe me nothing! I was selfish and I'm sorry you are stuck paying for it... Uncle Aquila thought it was a waste of money, that you'd escape or die because... because your people prefer death to a life in chains. I should have freed the day we got you, I knew it, but...”

“But?”

She takes a deep breath, rubbing her face again. “Don't you see it, Esca? I can't free you. We can't afford to.”

Once more, Esca isn't sure he understands what she is saying. “You mean because all your other slaves are older than me?”

“In part. To work these lands properly, though, we'd need more slaves and we can't afford them. That's why I started breeding horses, too: we had a good start with Uncle's horses and my mare and I knew I could do it alone. Well, almost alone,” she adds with an apologetic glance in his direction. “Uncle bought me Vipsania when he learned I liked horses, I got Dulce and Sol after selling some of my jewels. We bought you with the proceedings from the sale of my first foal.”

Esca never thought he could feel the weight of his debt even more. “I don't understand. You're Romans, Patrician Romans. You are supposed to be...”

“Rich? We are not.” She shakes her head. “Mind you, we are a minor branch of our _gens,_ we were never the richest to begin with. However, after my father lost his legion, we lost everything. Uncle Aquila had to pay for that, too, and it cost him, both in his savings and his career. He says it was his choice to stay here in Britain, after he retired, but... well, I wouldn't dream of contradicting him, it's just that we both know he didn't have much of a choice. With our original farm gone, he couldn't afford Etruria and even if somehow he managed to sell his land here well enough, what sort of welcome could he expect?” Flavia sighs. “We are not exactly welcome on this side of the Oceanus Britannicus, either, but we made a life for ourselves. It's not much, it's not easy, but it is ours. That's enough.”

“Is it?” Esca asks before he can stop himself. Can it really be enough? The vision of Flavia, old and grey and completely alone, keeps dancing before his eyes, taunting him.

Flavia doesn't answer. She stands without looking at him, wiping grass from her tunic. “Let's go. It's time to go back to work.”

Esca follows her. Soon, Marcipor, Sassticca and even Stephanos and Master Aquila join them – no one is exempt and there's no more time to look. Esca must concentrate on his own work, even as he feels her presence like iron feels a lodestone.

Somehow, he manages to keep his eyes down and not stare at her – at least not here, not were everybody can see him.

Working in the stables that evening is... difficult, and not because he is tired. They are more at ease than they had been for weeks, now, yet some tension still lingers. Perhaps it will pass with time, or perhaps not.

That night, in his cubiculum, Esca lays awake for hours, and not because he expects a summon. He is just... thinking. Really thinking, about himself and truth and the future.

All these years a slave, he had always thought of escaping, but he never really considered where he would go. It was always running from Rome, but not towards something.

He had vaguely thought of going North, but where? What tribe would welcome him? Oh, some would, for his father's name alone, but others would shun him in fear of Rome and others still would despise him for his years in captivity.

He tries to picture it anyway: his own hearth, a fair-haired woman, hunting with the other warriors... But the hearth looks too much like his father's own home, and he can't quite picture the woman's face, nor the warriors'. They're all just shadows. It doesn't feel real, not even as a possibility, and it stirs no fire, no longing in his heart, merely a distant sadness.

And then he thinks of Flavia.

He thinks of her face framed by her dark hair, her eyes lit up in a smile, the way her voice changes when she speaks to her horse. He thinks of the way she looked when those accursed Romans visited the year before and how he managed to make her laugh.

He thinks of all the insults she endured, the words she could guess being whispered behind her back, the scorning glances from her countrymen and women and he finds himself reaching for his father's dagger, as if he could put out all their eyes and cut off their tongues.

He thinks of his life debt and how he was so sure it could never be repaid.

_But there is a way. A life for a life...._ He imagines going to her, in her study or maybe in the stables. _Send me North, domina. I know the place where your father's legion fell, though I have never seen it. I know the tribes and their languages. They will welcome me in my father's name and will be eager to reminiscence about their great victory. I will find the eagle and return it and your family will regains its honour. _

This he can see, as clear as the day. Old Aquila will not believe a single word from his barbarian mouth, but Flavia will, she knows him.

(It shakes him to his bones to realize that it's true, she does.)

The picture in his mind changes again: he sees her marrying some Roman officer – not that ass Placidus, thankfully, but Roman officers are all alike and he doesn't matter anyway – and oh, the look on her face! Such wondrous happiness! He sees her in a house much like this one but somewhere sunnier, surrounded by dark-haired, dark-eyed children and himself, no longer a slave but a freedman, always by her side until they are both old and grey.

_I can give you that, Flavia. I will. I only have to convince you... _

That will be the easy part. Finding the Eagle will not be too difficult, not as much as surviving the journey back once he has it, but even that wouldn't be impossible and once he reaches the Wall and the Roman camp... and that's when all dreams shatter and die.

Flavia would believe him, but she would be the only one. What of the other Romans? Would they believe a slave? A Briton? Without a Roman to vouch for him, for the Eagle itself?

For a moment, his heart tries to rebel. _It's their own damn bird, surely they would recognize it?_

Even as he thinks it, he knows that's the wrong question. Would they want to recognize it, after it was delivered to them by a Briton slave, who succeeded where all their brave Roman officers failed or feared to try? Or would they cry fraud and forgery?

Esca knows the answer. He knows it in his bones, in every scar the Romans left on his body.

Worse of all, they wouldn't even accept that a slave could be solely responsible for this deception and who else could be to blame but his masters?

_They so like to blame Flavia for everything._

Esca can't even imagine what they'd do to her, he doesn't know enough about Roman laws and customs to guess, but it's enough to make his heart tremble.

_Forget happiness, I'd bring her only ruin, pain and death!_

Unacceptable. Unbearable.

_No one must know. Let the Northern forest keep its secrets. _

It takes him a long, long time to fall asleep and, when he finally does, his dreams are haunted by golden eagles and ghostly legions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The potentially triggering scene: Flavia accidentally walks on Esca bathing naked in the river. Esca assumes/fears that she will rape him (he's a slave and she owns him, she absolutely can and it would be rape) and, in a rage, he strides out of the river shouting at her. Flavia panics and knees him in the groin.
> 
> (Neither of them was actually going to touch/molest/assault the other, but unfortunately they can't read minds)
> 
> Also: Flavia mentions that her uncle by marriage tried to force himself on her, but she fought him off.


	4. Summer lessons

The next day, he must look a fright. Flavia frets about him, as she did last summer when he was recovering from his illness, but Esca shrugs off her concerns. There's too much work to do.

Esca keeps his head down, his mouth shut and works even harder than before. He watches her all the time – covertly, of course, but she is never out of his sight for long.

Beyond that, he doesn't know what to do.

That night, he dreams again.

He is back in his village, in his father's roundhouse. His mother sits at the loom, weaving. He can't see his father and brothers, but he knows they are there, somewhere.

“Mother,” he says. “I've found a girl I wish to marry.”

His mother smiles at him without pausing her work. “This is welcome news, Esca.”

“Is it?” Esca smiles sadly. “She is not of the Iceni, nor of the Coritani or the Ordovici. Her hair is dark, not blonde or red. Her eyes are brown, not blue or green.”

“And so?” His mother insists gently. “You love her. Does she love you?”

“I don't know, mother. I don't think so. She cared for me, I think, but I didn't believe it and I scared her.”

She frowns in thought, the shuttle dancing in her hands. “If all her regard is gone, you'd best forget her and find another girl, then.”

Esca shakes his head, biting back a bitter laugh. “I cannot. I can't forget her and I can't find another... Even if she never loves me, even if she'll never have me, my heart belongs to her.”

“Your heart will heal. There are many girls in the world.”

“None like her.”

His mother looks up at him. “What shall you do, then? Shall you waste away for love, my son?”

Esca has only one answer to that. “I don't know, mother. I would serve her all my life and see her happy.”

“All your life might be a long time, my dear. Who knows, what's broken might be mended.”

“It's not so easy.”

“Why not? You are a chieftain's son and I have never known you to shy away from a challenge.”

Esca smiles bitterly. “I am a slave, mother, and she is Roman.”

His mother ought to throw down the shuttle, she ought to scream and hit him, but she simply pauses her work and stands, laying her hands on his shoulders. “Ah, Esca, my son... from the day you were born I knew the path you'd walk would not be an easy one.”

Esca can't look at her any more. “I shame you, my father and my brothers.”

“Because you desire a Roman woman?” she asks and he winces. “Did it hurt to admit it?”

“It did. More so now because... if I had admitted it earlier...”

“You would have acted differently.” His mother reaches up to cup his cheeks. Her hands are cold. “A woman's heart is said to be as fickle as the wind, but it can be as strong and steady as the earth. She might forgive you, might return your love... or she might not. You'll never know until you try, but try you must and live with the result.”

“You make it sound so easy...”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Life is not easy.”

“But the Romans...after all they've done!”

“Surely this girl is not all Romans? Or all of Rome? Why, she'd never fit into a roundhouse! And where would she sleep? All the beds in the village wouldn't be enough!”

It is a ridiculous image, for all that Flavia is tall. “She's not. She is... she is just a girl. Just a woman.”

“Then love her, Esca. Her, not Romans or Rome. As for us, my son, we are dead and you are alive. You must live in the world and Romans are part of it. As your mother, I would see you happy.”

“I'll make a fool of myself. She will sell me.”

“Will she? Are you sure?” She is smiling at him. “Live, my son. Be happy.”

When he wakes up, his face is still wet with tears, but his heart feels at peace.

Of course, for all his resolve, he actually hasn't got the faintest idea how to go about it: he remembers the courting rituals of his people, but Flavia wouldn't understand them, and he doesn't know enough about Roman customs or where to learn them. He suspects they wouldn't be very useful in his situation, either.

There's one more thing, too, that troubles his mind and gnaws at his insides like a wolf in winter: the secret she shared with him, what her aunt's husband tried to do. He thought such things couldn't possibly happen to Roman women of rank, and yet they do. They have. What if it happens again when he can't protect her?

He knows Romans have laws, but how much good would it do to her afterwards? She'd still be hurt and he frankly isn't convinced that Roman laws would be applied fairly to her.

Yet he can't just... stand aside and do nothing.

For days he watches her, not caring if she sees, and plans. He has his training as a warrior, incomplete as it is, but she is a woman: some things will always be beyond her.

He's probably nowhere near ready on the day he approaches in the stables, after they have finished up the daily chores.

“What is it, Esca?” she asks, wary.

“I keep thinking about what you told me. About your aunt's husband.” Not the best approach, perhaps, but he can't exactly walk up to her and demand she attack him.

Flavia looks stricken. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to place this burden on you...”

Esca shakes his head, interrupting her. “It's not that. I can teach how to defend yourself, if you want. In case your uncle by marriage decides to drop by for a visit.”

She frowns, uncertain. “That will never happen, but it's still very kind of you to offer. However... well, you were a warrior. I'm hardly an Amazon.”

“I've thought of that: my training included many things that would be useless to you,” They are pretty useless to him now, too, but he won't dwell on that. “But there are also tricks you could learn – how to use your knife, for a start. Besides, you fought him off all on your own. You said so yourself.”

“By throwing half my furniture at his head.”

“It worked, didn't it? But next time you might not have furniture at hand.”

“In that case, I'll be fucked.” Esca glares. “Sorry. It wasn't funny. Do you really think I could do it?”

“I don't see why not.” He wonders whether there's something else that worries – if she is still scared of him, if she doesn't trust him and why should she? He has a thousand things he wants to say, but none would make it right – they might even scare her again, so he bites his tongue and keeps silent.

_This is her decision, too, and I will accept it._

If she does refuse, though, he is never letting her out of his sight again, especially around other Romans. He'll sleep across her door or outside her window if he has to.

Flavia smiles. “All right, but only if you are sure you are not too tired. When do we start?”

“Now, if you don't mind.”

“If you're sure...” she shifts her weight from one foot to another, a little nervous. “What should I do?”

“Take your knife and attack me.”

Her eyes widen and she takes a step back. “What? No! It's sharp, I could hurt you!”

“You won't,” Esca replies calmly. “I need to see how you do.” Flavia still hesitates, her hand holding down the knife she wears around her waist as though if could fly out and stab Esca on its own. “I promise you won't hurt me. Please, Flavia. I really need this if I am to teach you well.”

Slowly, she nods. “All right. I'll... I'll try.”

Esca shifts his stance. “Whenever you're ready.”

Flavia takes a deep breath, draws the knife and lunges at him – she is quick, and strong, and smart enough to go for his throat, but Esca still easily grabs her wrist and pushes her arm back until she is unbalanced and sweeps her feet out from under her.

“Going for my throat wasn't a bad idea, but you shouldn't have tried to break my hold like that,” he tells her as he helps her back up. “Scratching my eyes out would have been better. Now, pick up your knife.”

She does, holding it as she did before: handle in her closed fist and blade facing down.

Esca shakes his head and takes her hand – she doesn't tense or pull away. “Hold it like this,” he says, placing it her hand so the blade is facing outwards and closing her fingers around the handle.. “Good. Keep your left arm up, like this. You are standing too straight, bend your knees a little. Move your left foot.” Once he is satisfied with her position, he moves to the side. “Good. Now, I want you try slashing instead of stabbing.”

Flavia nods and moves again. She is slower, half cautious and half unsure, but speed will come with time.

“Turn your wrist on the way back, keep the blade out.”

He lets her try it out a couple more times before he stops her again. “We'll need blunt knives for the next lesson, so you can practice properly, but I'm going to show where you'll hit. So, if somebody is reaching for you,” he outstretches his right arm, takes her hand with his left and guides the blade down the inside of his forearm without actually touching it. “You start cutting here. If they're armed, they won't be able to keep hold of their weapon.” He lets go of her hand before they get hopelessly tangled up. “Then turn your wrist like I showed you and your next target is here.” He drops his right arm and traces a semicircle with his finger right above his elbow. “And the third one is here.” Another semicircle, this time about two inches above his knee. “Cut them like this and they won't be able to do anything but drop to the ground and scream.”

Flavia stares attentively at him. “Can you show me how it's done?” she asks, offering him her knife handle first.

Esca takes a step back. “I can't. I could hurt you.”

Flavia raises her eyebrows. “You won't. You are a trained warrior.”

“Half trained only. Besides, how would it look if somebody saw us?”

“Who? The stables are our responsibility, everybody knows that, and uncle Aquila's tower is on the other side of the house. Even if somebody did, I wouldn't let you end up in trouble.” She bites her lip. “This would be our first and last lesson, though that would happen anyway if we are ever discovered.”

As uncomfortable as the idea makes him, she does have a point. He takes the knife. “All right, but we are doing this properly. Is there something you can use to attack me?”

The demonstration is postponed by a few minutes as they both search for something that could make a creditable improvised weapon before finding a broken branch.

Flavia tries to take a swing at his head, but Esca simply steps back and of the way, then runs the back of the blade down her forearm without leaving a scratch. A fake slash to the back of her arm, then on her leg, careful not to press too hard and Esca steps back, ready to give her back her knife.

She is staring at him again, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “You were so fast!”

“Do you want me to do it more slowly?” he asks, and for once the Verbeia must be smiling on him because she shakes her head.

“No, you showed me the movements already. Now I'll just have to practice.”

“We'll try tomorrow, with blunted blades, so you can learn properly.”

He expects a complaint, but none arrive. Instead, Flavia smiles at him as she slides the knife back in its sheathe – bright, happy and his heart suddenly beats faster. “Thank you, Esca. This is, without a doubt, the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.”

Esca looks away. “You're welcome. It's the least I could do, really.”

By some miracle, they are not found out.

Esca's idea proves right, the blunted knives make lessons much, much easier: he can teach her how to defend herself properly now, how to hook, parry and counter-attack. Flavia might not be an Amazon, but she is a dedicated students, determined to learn.

Once or twice, he catches her practising the basic moves on her own, when she thinks herself unobserved.

He hadn't planned to do more than that – it's more than damning enough, really – but... it's not enough, it doesn't feel enough. Knives can be dropped, taken away or lost, get caught in bones or cartilage and Flavia knows that already, but a fight is different from gutting a chicken or preparing a piglet. Some things cannot be taught without experience and that cannot be provided, she doesn't even the advantage he used to have of different sparring partners.

So after knife skills, wrestling can only follow: how and where to kick, how to punch, how to break free from a hold and much more. This requires even more caution, because bruises on a slave won't be noticed, on her, well... Flavia grumbles to herself about only half-learning, but she is too sensible not to recognize their limitations.

They end up practising a lot of holds and grappling a lot. Flavia does surprise him, here, because it turns out she has some experience from childish brawls with her cousins, which sounds normal and mostly innocent until he sees the veritable arsenal of filthy tricks she developed from them and that still come naturally to her. A cornered lynx, and it makes Esca narrow his eyes and finger his dagger when he thinks about it. In all his tussles with his brothers and friends, none of them had ever needed to resort to hair pulling, or biting, or... well, if her family ever comes for a visit, there will be Consequences.

It's years too late, he knows, but frankly he doesn't give a single damn. They hurt Flavia, they must pay and they have lived on credit long enough.

But that's just idle speculation, nothing more. Knife fighting and wrestling, along with the usual summer toil, are the present and Esca knew they were dangerous, even before he made up his mind to offer them. He just thought he had accounted for every danger, taken the appropriate precautions and countermeasures.

So, in the end, he ends up trapping himself with his own hands – so to speak.

It's almost sunset when it happens: after the last chores, he and Flavia both  sneaked out to a secluded spot not far from the stables for one last lesson. They have taken to practising fighting, or as close to it as they can get: knife drills first, then they'll try to disarm each other and switch to wrestling once that's done.

Flavia manages to disarm him first, but he tackles her to the ground and they wrestle and grapple until he has her almost completely pinned down under his body. Then Flavia turns her head and bites his neck – not hard, never too hard because teeth marks are too distinct, too noticeable, just a scrape of teeth to show him what she would do. He has always encouraged her to use all her dirty tricks whenever she can, she has “bit” him like this before – on his hand when it was covering her mouth, on his arms. Never on his neck and Esca's body just... _reacts_ and for a moment, a heartbeat, he freezes in place.

Flavia pulls back, big brown eyes staring up at him and with a cold, sinking feeling, he realizes that _she knows_.

He scrambles off of her as fast as he can, almost tripping over his own feet, panicked apologies tumbling from his lips. “Sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't... I wouldn't... Please, don't be scared, I didn't...”

Flavia sits up slowly, her cheeks flushed from more than their exercise. “No, it's alright, Esca... I know you didn't mean that... and you wouldn't...There's nothing to apologize for.” She looks away, starts nervously pulling up blades of grass. “I'll talk to Stephanos. We should send you in town more often.”

Esca blinks, confused. “What?”

“It would be easier if we were a bigger household, I know, but I'm sure that... well, I heard the baker's sister always has an eye out for handsome young men. If not her, maybe another girl. I'm sure you could... meet someone...”

Esca stares. Bites back the first angry retorts rising to his lips. Stares again. “Meet someone?” he repeats incredulously. “To what end, exactly?”

She grits her teeth, rips up more grass and still doesn't look at him. “You know why, Esca.”

“I don't want the baker's sister. Or any other girl.”

She frowns. “Well, a boy then. The blacksmith's apprentice...”

“I don't want them! Any of them! Stop trying to set me up with other people when I want...”

“What?” She asks, finally looking up at him. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Flavia stares at him again, her eyes suddenly cold. “You don't.”

“I tell you, I do.”

“You made it extremely clear how you felt about me already!” She half shouts, jumping to her feet. “Keep your lies and your pity, I neither want them nor need them!”

“I am not lying!” Esca takes a deep breath, tries to calm down. To find the words. When he speaks again, his voice is calm and even. “I was afraid, that day at the river. And angry, too. I like you, Flavia, and I liked you then but I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. Being angry was easier.”

Some of that coldness, that hostility does leave her face, but not all. “Esca...” she says, tiredly rubbing a hand against her eyes, and there's something terribly sad in her voice.

“You don't believe me.”

“I believe you had your good reasons to be afraid, and they were likely much the same as mine. But just because I won't force you and you're relieved, it's not enough. It will pass.”

“It won't,” Esca moves closer, and part of him is relieved that she doesn't flinch or retreats.“I know how I feel. I know it's real.” One more step and he stands right in front of her. “I can prove it.”

“Can you?” she challenges, still wary, still sceptical.

Esca bends his head slowly, gives her plenty of time to pull back or slap him, but she just keeps watching him with a puzzled frown on her face until his lips are pressed against her own. He doesn't ask for more, doesn't dare, but her lips part under his own and he pours everything he is, everything he has into that kiss – all the fire in his blood, every last beat of his heart, every feeling and memory in his soul.

He feels her hands on his shoulders, trembling, and then she is kissing him back. His heart sings. When he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her again his chest, she comes willingly, leaning against him.

He could spend hours, the whole night like this, holding her and kissing her. Just like this.

Eventually, he pulls back. Meets her gaze and holds it. “A man who doesn't like you doesn't kiss you like that.”

“Esca, I... You...We can't. We shouldn't. I... what do you even want?” Flavia whispers. Her hands are still on his shoulders.

“I told you,” he says gently, raising a hand to stroke her cheek. “You. You are all I want.”

“This is madness. How can you mean it? I'm... I'm...” Roman. Your mistress. She doesn't say it, lets the words hang between them and part of him is glad that she doesn't. That she wouldn't use it against him even now, when she most definitely should.

“We don't have to do anything right now. We don't have to do anything at all. If you say you don't want me, we'll forget this ever happened. I won't breathe another word, I swear. It will be just like it was before.”

Flavia laughs. It sounds brittle and broken, like a plate smashed into tiny pieces. “How could we forget? How could we go back?”

She sounds on the verge of tears and Esca hates it, hates that he caused this when even that ass Placidus didn't manage, that he doesn't know how to fix it. He pulls her back in his arms, hugs her close as tightly as he dares without hurting her, without trapping her.

Flavia wraps her arms around his neck and lays her head against his shoulder, holds on to him as though she is drowning and he is the only thing holding the current at bay “I don't know what to do...”

“You don't have to decide now.” Esca replies, gently stroking her back. “Take all the time you need. I'll wait.”

“Tomorrow.” Flavia says, her voice resolute. She lets go and steps back, out of his reach. “I'll give you an answer tomorrow. Goodnight, Esca.”

She turns on her heel and marches away, her back straight and her shoulders squared like any good Roman soldier.

Esca watches her go and silently curses himself for a fool – for scaring her that day by the river, for not keeping his mouth shut now, for ruining everything once again.

Still, what is done cannot be undone. He gathers up their training knives, hides any and all possible traces of their lesson – their last, most likely.

As night falls, he goes back to the house, walks straight to his cubiculum without saying a single word to any of the other slaves. Ignoring their chatter, he settles down for a long, long night.

At least tomorrow he will know. One way or the other.


	5. Flavia

Uncle Aquila would say Esca is lying. He'd say that he is a slave and cannot be trusted, he's just saying what I want to hear...

But Esca doesn't lie. He just...doesn't. Stephanos still grouses he has the worst attitude he has ever seen in a slave, why should he change now? To what purpose? Esca knows I can't free him.

But he could be sold. Is that what he wants?

...That has got to be the stupidest way in the world to go about it, though.

I just... don't understand why he would say those things. He's proud, stubborn and brazen, but he has never been cruel.

Why would he say those things?

Unless he meant them...

Impossible. How could he mean it?

Perhaps he just wants a fuck, and why not have some fun at his master's expenses by seducing his stupid niece?

...but that would be cruel and Esca isn't cruel. Or stupid, but he took such a risk telling me... he could have just kept quiet and risked nothing, he saw I was not offended. But that wouldn't be like him and that's why I... No, I won't say it. I won't say I admire him, or like him or any other small, insufficient word.

I love him.

I don't know how it happened, if it was when we delivered Dulce's unfortunate foal or when he made me laugh after that horrid visit, but it's true. I loved him that day at the river and it hurt so much that he could think I would hurt him so. I loved him the day after, and the one after that and I kept waiting for these feelings to pass, to wane and wither, but they haven't.

I was not going to say anything. Even before the river, I was not going to say anything. It's just feelings and I know how to deal with them – push them aside, lock them in a chest and never think of them. I'm good at that – as I well should be, with all the practice I've had!

But he spoke first and he didn't have to. I promised him an answer.

I know what I should say, what I should do. Good Roman girls do not lie with slaves – or rather, they do, but no one talks about it unless it is to mock and scorn. A slave is for temporary relief, not a lover. Not important.

Ah! What a joke. Hypocrites, all of them. All talks of honour, morality and so on, but if half the gossip I head from my aunt and cousin was true... and what I heard was maybe a quarter of what was actually being said.

For all talks of fidelity, it's well known that a married woman should seek a lover of higher rank or position to help advance the family's interests. A widow can free her slave and marry him, but they can still expect to be ridiculed behind their back.

But that's the problem, isn't it? I am neither married, nor widowed. I am a virgin and expected to remain so until marriage or death, whichever comes first.

Uncle Aquila would have a fit if I told him I want to marry Esca. He'd sell him, or worse... For all that he loves me, he would never tolerate this stain on the family name. A military defeat is one thing, ridicule and scandal quite another, and after all he has done for me already...

I know what I should do, I know it well. If I loved my family more, if I were a proper, obedient girl (girl still! At my age!), a proper Roman... except I'm not. No matter how much I strive, I will never be a good, proper Roman girl. I will always be the daughter of the man who lost the Ninth and I'll have to pay for the loss to my dying day, since my father is beyond reach.

So what if I love a Briton, a slave? He has always been kind to me, which is more than most Romans, than Rome itself can say! They can take their precious Eagle and shove it down their greedy throats sideways and may they choke on it and all their smirking, condescending, smug superiority!

I am sick of this, sick and tired of existing day after day, of hiding and bowing my head and apologising for daring to breathe while they chuckle and titter pityingly at Aquila's useless daughter!

No. Enough. For once in my life I want to live, not just exist.

Mother, father, forgive me if you can, and if you cannot... Well, so be it. You are dead, I'm alive. I could be as chaste as Tuccia1 and it still won't restore our lost honour.

I only worry about Uncle Aquila... he has been so good to me, he's truly all the family I have. He has been most indulgent, too, in letting me try my hand at raising horses, but... he wouldn't understand. Even if I went to him and told him I want Esca freed, that I mean to marry him, he... he wouldn't allow it. It would be too much for his pride. I know him. He still values our family name and I know he'd feel he has failed me in not finding me a husband worthy of our class, somebody who could secure my and my children's future.

He'd mean well, but he would sell Esca, or worse... I cannot allow it. Not just for Esca's sake and mine, but also because... because I do not wish to see him hurt.

Maybe it's just selfishness on my part – after all he has given, I still want more, yet how could I not wish for more than this half life?

Uncle Aquila himself, if asked, would say he'd want nothing more than to see me married, become a wife and mother, but he could never accept a former Briton slave as my spouse – and that's assuming Esca would agree to marry me in first place.

I don't know what would infuriate Uncle Aquila more: the idea that a slave would dare raise his eyes on his niece or that he'd consider himself high enough to refuse her, as Esca very well might. He still has his pride, his dignity.

Uncle Aquila doesn't see it that way, wouldn't understand why it makes me admire him even more.

Perhaps I am selfish and ungrateful, a weak woman governed by her lust. But what Uncle Aquila doesn't know won't hurt him.

If it is folly, let me be mad. If it kills me, I will not die without having lived. I want Esca the Brigantes and if he wants me, he can have me. I'd rather be his whore than a smirking Roman's wife.

1** Tuccia:** a legendary Vestal virgin who, after being falsely accused, proved her chastity by carrying water in a sieve from the Tiber to the temple of Vesta. She was considered an example of, you guessed it, chastity

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you get one story that won't leave you alone until you sit down and actually write it? This is it. Please don't yell at me.


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